Night of the Zombie Chickens (18 page)

A
lyssa
and I split up. She goes to her locker and I head straight to the music room. Despite all our planning last week, I never actually signed up to audition. Luckily, the sign-up sheet is still hanging on the wall. It looks like the name of almost every female seventh grader is on it. I scrawl my own at the bottom of the list.

“Hello, Kate.”

I jump about a foot at Mr. Cantrell's voice right behind me. He has one of those quiet gazes that make you feel nervous, like he knows something and he's just waiting for you to come out and admit it.

“Hi, Mr. Cantrell. I was just signing up for auditions.”

“Good, good,” he says vaguely. “I was just coming to get the list.”

I untape it from the wall and hand it to him.

“Oh, my.” He riffles through the pages and smiles weakly. “Lots of interest, I see.”

“It's too bad about the wig,” I say, and then immediately want to kick myself. It's a well-known fact that criminals often return to the scene of their crime. They also have an obsessive need to talk about what they did. Here I am, hardly twenty feet from the bald plastic head, blabbing away. But Mr. Cantrell merely nods.

“Yes, it is too bad.”

“You know, I don't think Alyssa took it,” I say in a rush. “She's not the type to steal stuff. And why would she want the wig, anyway?”

“I certainly hope you're right, Kate.”

“It was probably just someone playing a practical joke,” I blindly go on. “Now that rehearsals will be starting soon, I bet whoever took it will put it back.”

Mr. Cantrell gives me another wistful smile and departs with the list. I treat myself to a good hard pinch for giving away the plot like an amateur. But seeing his sad face makes me feel even guiltier. Poor Mr. Cantrell probably took the theft personally, like a slap in the face. He's probably devastated that someone would stoop so low as to take the red wig for his musical. I can only hope he'll feel better once the wig is returned.

At lunchtime I sit with Margaret and Doris, as usual. Alyssa and I decided we would pretend to still be mad at each other until we got the wig safely back on its plastic head.

“I wish I could help,” Doris says for the hundredth time, “but I don't sing. And I have Math Club after school.”

I didn't even know our school had a math club. I'm tempted to ask what they do, exactly, but Doris has her mouth full and I decide not to chance it.

“That's okay. You're the mastermind,” I tell her. “The mastermind never gets her hands dirty with the gritty details.”

“Did you tell Alyssa about the ending to your movie?” Margaret asks me.

She says it casually but I feel an icy finger in my stomach. Margaret has figured out that if Alyssa and I become friends again, then Alyssa might want to finish
Night of the Zombie Chic
kens
.

I always wished my life could be a movie, but now I'm not so sure. Even I can't keep up with all these plot threads. “Um, yeah. She thought it sounded...interesting. Once she sees it, she'll love it,” I babble on.

Margaret smiles, cheered.

I try to smile back, but it's hard. Frogs are jumping in my stomach, and the thought of singing in front of Mr. Cantrell makes me want to puke. I push away my sandwich. There's no way I can eat anything today.

The afternoon crawls by. In history class I gaze out the window, hiding a yawn. Huge clouds hang in the air like floating sledgehammers. When I glance back at the clock, I'm almost positive it's gone backward.

By business ed class at the end of the day, all the sledgehammers have blended together and the last bit of blue sky has disappeared. The wind churns in the trees and leaves scatter everywhere. A hard rain begins to drive against the windows.

As we leave class, Alyssa bumps into me and whispers in my ear: “There's a severe thunderstorm warning. I hope Mr. Cantrell doesn't cancel auditions!”

I shrug like I'm not worried. A small part of me wishes he
would
cancel so I don't have to humiliate myself. When I drag myself to the choir room, it seems like the entire seventh-grade female population is waiting in the hallway, and a lot of eighth graders, too. They all watch me as I check the audition schedule. Sure enough, with a last name of Walden, I'm second to last in line, right before Margaret Yorkel.

“I heard there's a tornado watch,” Margaret says at my elbow. She smiles and I can feel the eyes of every single girl on me.

“Cool,” I say loudly. “Maybe we'll all get blown away.”

It looks like it's going to be a long wait. Luckily, the music department is tucked away at the end of a wing because most of the girls are sprawled on the hallway floor, chatting, texting, or doing homework. I dump my backpack, slip off my shoes, and join them. It takes all my concentration just to try to look relaxed. Mr. Cantrell is doing the auditions in the choir room. The music classroom, where the bald plastic head sits, is just two doors away.

A huge crack of thunder makes everyone jump. Lydia and Tina Turlick both scream and collapse on the floor. Mr. Cantrell emerges from the choir room and frowns.

“Please, girls, keep it down. Jennifer Adams?”

Jennifer bounces into the choir room behind Mr. Cantrell. Mr. Cantrell has decided that everyone should sing the same song to make it easier. We hear the piano plunk out “Tomorrow.” Jennifer's voice screeches on the top note.

Lydia makes a face like a constipated opera singer and everyone laughs. It occurs to me that being second to last isn't such a bad thing.

I was worried about getting through the song since I hadn't exactly prepared, but after hearing fifteen auditions in a row, I know the words well enough to sing in my sleep. When Debbie Jacobs goes in, I slip away to the bathroom and text Alyssa.
You
'
re
next.

By the time Alyssa arrives, Debbie is just leaving the choir room. Mr. Cantrell pokes his head out. “Alyssa Jensen?”

Every pair of eyes is glued on Alyssa as she walks through the crowded hallway to the door. Luckily, Mr. Cantrell waits for her because the crowd's mood is ugly. I think I would have sagged under the weight of all those eyes and sunk right through the floor. Alyssa keeps her head up and her eyes straight in front of her, but her cheeks flood with red.

As soon as the door closes, Tina Turlick makes a nasty face, which isn't very different from her normal face. “I can't believe Mr. Cantrell is letting her try out! She should be banned from the play.”

“We should chop off all her hair, dye it red, and make a new wig,” Sarah Perkins adds.

Lydia gives a huge gasp, like she's just come up with the perfect idea. “Yeah, let's scalp her! I always wanted to scalp somebody.”

Everyone falls quiet then as Alyssa's voice rises on the chorus of “Tomorrow.” She's a little pitchy, but you can hardly blame her. She knows everyone is listening and talking a mile a minute about her. I close my eyes and say a little prayer that our plan will work. I need to clear Alyssa's name fast or she'll crack under all the pressure. My heart sinks as I remember the condition of the Not-So-Cute Red Wig. Even if we manage to safely return it, I have to face facts—no one is going to want to put that thing on her head. The uproar would continue, only now it would be about who destroyed the wig. The best I can do is make sure nobody suspects Alyssa any longer.

Alyssa sails out the door and I hold my breath. Will she remember her lines?

“Thanks, Mr. Cantrell!” she says loudly. “I've got to run! I have a doctor's appointment. I'm already late!”

So far, so good. Everyone knows she's leaving the building.

“Maddie Long?” Mr. Cantrell calls out. He's holding the door open, and through it we can see sheets of rain spraying the windows.

“‘I have a doctor's appointment,'” Tina mimics. “She doesn't want to hang out here with the rest of us.”

The rain has given me an idea. I casually pick up my backpack. My eyes meet Margaret's for a split second and then I take a few steps down to the music classroom. Luckily, the door has a pane of glass and through it, I can see the big wall of windows on the far side of the room. The rain and the whipping wind outside look pretty impressive.

“Wow!” I say loudly. “It looks really nasty out there.”

A few girls glance over my way, but I'm too low on the social totem pole for them to pay much attention. I need Lydia. I take a deep breath and take my game, and my decibel level, up a notch.

“Hey, Lydia,” I call out, so loud that everyone looks over. “You might have to audition during a tornado.” I nod toward the music classroom window.

“Cool,” Lydia calls out. “Maybe it'll suck me up and I won't have to sing!”

Just what I'm afraid of—I got her attention for a millisecond, but not enough to make her get up and come over. I lick my lips. I need to deliver an Oscar-winning performance and I'm running out of time. Lydia is up next to audition. Luckily, everyone is tired of hearing endless renditions of “Tomorrow.”

I flinch like something big just flew past the window. “Holy crap, what was that?” I exclaim. “I think a house just flew by! Too bad we're not trying out for
The Wizard of
Oz
!”

I say a private
Hallelujah
as Lydia laughs, then bounces up and strolls over. Immediately, five other girls follow, then four more. Pretty soon, everyone is trying to peer through the small window in the door. Hens act pretty much the same way. They're impossible to herd, but if you can get the leader to follow you, the rest will tag along.

I grab the knob to throw open the door so everyone can go inside and that's when I realize I'm in big trouble. The door is locked. Mr. Cantrell must have started locking it since the theft of the wig. My head starts swirling like the leaves outside the window. If the door is locked, then I can't get in to replace the wig. I glance at Margaret. She bites her lip, looking worried.

“That's some seriously nasty weather,” Lydia agrees, peering through the door.

Just then, Mr. Cantrell pops his head into the hallway and consults his list. “Lydia Merritt?”

My brain is frozen. I can't think of what to do. Then, Margaret's voice sings out.

“Mr. Cantrell, have you seen how bad the weather is? We want to look through the windows, but we can't get in.”

I rattle the door for effect. Some of the others chime in and suddenly it's a game. The girls on the outside of the pack start jumping up and down like they're trying to see in. “Come on, Mr. C!” they call. “We want to see the big storm.”

Mr. Cantrell glances at his list of names. Luckily, there's one thing I know about teachers. Deep down, they all want to be cool. They want to be liked by their students. I think that's why Mr. Cantrell finally shrugs and smiles. “It
is
ugly out there.”

My knees practically sag with relief as he unlocks the door. Thank goodness for Margaret. Everyone spills inside and
oo
h
s and
aa
h
s at the black sheets of rain pouring down. The windows shake like they're possessed by evil demon chickens.

I cross over to the window with the others and then accidentally on purpose knock over the bald head. “Oops,” I say cheerfully. “Poor bald, plastic head.”

Margaret laughs loudly. “We should buy her a hat!”

No one laughs much, but we've made our point. The wig is still missing.

“Okay, girls,” Mr. Cantrell calls. “We still have lots of auditions. Let's go. Lydia, you're up next.”

Lydia smirks and suddenly everyone is rushing out behind her, eager to hear her sing. Margaret makes sure everyone gets out and then nods to me as she leaves. She will watch the door for me. Moving quickly, I grab the wig out of my backpack, fluff up the limp curls as best I can, stick it onto the plastic head, and then shove the head against the windows. Maybe if the wig is in silhouette, people won't notice the sorry shape it's in.

Luckily, everyone is listening breathlessly to Lydia sing. I ease open the door and slip out without anyone noticing.

In my short time on earth, I've already observed that life can be flat-out wrong sometimes—the prettiest girls also end up having the best voices, or they rock in gymnastics, or they're ballerinas and star in
The Nutcracker Suite,
or all of the above. I'm not sure who makes up the rules, but I'm pretty sure that “Life is fair” isn't one of them. I'd already made up my mind that Lydia would get the part of Annie. That's just how life works.

Usually. As I glance around, nobody dares to snicker but I see definite grins. A steam cloud of relief rises up from our huddled masses as Lydia yowls her way through the chorus. She might be funny, but she's no Little Orphan Annie.

Still, when she swaggers out of the choir room and pops her gum, everybody laughs like she's just cracked the funniest joke ever. “
Sayonara
, ladies,” Lydia calls with a wave. “I'm off to surf the tsunami.”